


With Flames at Their Heels

by Dolorosa



Category: The Forgotten Beasts of Eld - Patricia A. McKillip
Genre: F/F, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27994296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolorosa/pseuds/Dolorosa
Summary: Sybel thought about the power she had wielded with Maelga. It was so unlike her own magic, and put to such a different purpose. Her own magic was cold, hard, and unyielding, like the bite of winter ice, or the clear, ringing note of a bell. Maelga's magic was warm, liquid, and burning — reaching outward instead of within.Maelga and Sybel work magic together.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	With Flames at Their Heels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunabee34 (Lorraine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/gifts).



On winter's nights in Eldwold, the light left the sky early, and the stars shone cold and bright. The wind howled up from the plain of Terbrec, blasting itself against Eld Mountain, piercing the stillness. And, on the darkest, longest night of the year, Sybel left the child Tamlorn curled up sleeping by the side of the great Cat Moriah, and came down from the mountain. She was a woman content in her solitude — the conversation of her collection of beasts, flowing pleasantly through her mind, and the chatter of her young charge were, for the most part, all the company she needed. But every so often, her feet grew restless, and the walls of her glass-domed house began to feel oppressive, and she found herself drawn down the winding track that led to the hut of her friend Maelga, for soup, and hot spiced mead, and conversation. On most such evenings, Sybel spent a few pleasant hours in companionable aimlessness — listening to Maelga gossip about the neighbouring farmers, interjecting occasionally with stories of the escapades of her own menagerie, warmed by the earthy vegetables of the soup and Maelga's gentle presence.

This night was different. Instead of greeting her with a smile and a hot drink, Maelga ushered Sybel to the fire, her expression serious.

'Since you're here,' she said, gesturing for Sybel to sit, 'you can help me with some magic.'

Sybel was speechless with surprise.

'Don't look so shocked,' said Maelga. 'I'm not asking you to spy on a king or take revenge on a wizard who wronged me. It's a little thing: a warning. And I'll feed you some soup when we're finished.'

*

'This feels very different to my kind of magic,' said Sybel, brushing a loose strand of ice-white hair from her eyes.

'Your kind of magic? Pah!' said Maelga. 'Wizards, and books, and calling, and claiming. Your father who taught you — and _his_ father who taught _him_ — would have you believe that it all comes down to naming and claiming. Know a thing's name, call it to you, and bind it to your side through force of will. There is power in that sort of magic, but it's not the only kind. There are other forms of power.'

The fire before the two women hissed and crackled, sending a shower of sparks upwards towards the roof of Maelga's hut. Sybel felt a humming in her veins, a sense of something building, a gathering of force. She took Maelga's hands. The older woman nodded, and Sybel had the sense of stability, of steady power flowing over and through her, and, beneath, something wild and strange.

'This will be difficult for you, little one,' said Maelga, her voice taut with the effort of holding the magic in check, 'but you must let go of your need for control. Yours is a cold power, like a key in a lock, but this calls for something unrestrained, in constant motion. Imagine a weed — no, better, a vine — and imagine it growing. Now imagine it growing without constraint.'

It was the work of a moment for Sybel to envision the tangle of ivy and mistletoe that grew over the old oak tree at the edge of her enclosed garden. And, almost the instant the images of these plants appeared in her mind, they were given form, flowing from Sybel's hands, coiling around Maelga's arms, and travelling across the earth floor of the hut. The vines grew at a prodigious rate: within seconds, they were pressing against the door, pushing it open, and bursting out into the cold, windy night.

The two women rose, taking care not to disturb the twisting tendrils of ivy that bound their hands together, and stood, framed in the doorway, looking out into the dark. The vines continued to grow, disappearing down the shepherds' track that led down the mountain. Sybel had the impression that Maelga was drawing on her, using her strength to direct the course of the twisting, travelling plants. Her own magic was unequal to the task; nothing she had learnt from her father, or from the dusty books in the library under the crystal dome, could have prepared her for this raw, wild power. She felt as if a forest had taken root within her bones.

It was impossible for Sybel to tell how much time had passed. Her whole world has shrunk to the wooden doorframe of Maelga's hut, and the hands she clasped, and the writhing coils of ivy that cascaded down the mountain. She felt as if she could hear the sap moving within the trees, and the roots of all the plants in Eldwold burrowing into the earth. She caught a glimpse of Maelga's face, and delighted in the expression of fierce celebration she saw there.

'Do you feel you can hold this?' asked Maela.

'All night,' said Sybel, in rapturous reply. Her skin sang like the rustle of leaves in the wind, and she felt as if her veins flowed with sap. She watched the vines continue to spill down the mountain.

'In that case,' said Maelga, 'when you are ready, start thinking of fire. No — don't let the plants waver —' she continued, when Sybel's vines seemed to flicker and falter. 'You must hold both in your mind.'

Sybel looked at Maelga's fireplace, filled as it was with dancing flames. She listened to the crackle and hiss of the logs, and breathed in the scent of woodsmoke until her lungs were full. She thought of warmth, and movement, and danger. Little balls of flame leapt into her hands.

Maelga nodded with approval.

'Now, when you're ready, send those flames downwards along the vines,' she said.'

Sybel imagined Gyld, and, as she exhaled, the fire flowed from her, as natural as a breath. It danced along the vines, leaping and twirling around her wrists like the gold bracelets from a dragon's hoard, and raced out of the hut, following the path down the mountain. Sybel could feel Maelga conjuring her own arc of flame. The other woman's magic was like a blast of heat and light, sweeping everything before it as it shot along the vine.

Their fire split the night, a glittering line in the darkness. The power of it threatened to knock Sybel over, and she braced against it as if she were a young tree withstanding a lightning strike. She watched her hands as if they belonged to a stranger, and tried to hold the contradictory senses of creation and destruction in her mind. The fire continued to burn, but it did not make contact with the ivy and mistletoe, instead hovering slightly above them.

Maelga's eyes met Sybel's, and the younger woman again sensed that her friend was drawing on her, using her strength to focus the ferocity of the flames and force it down the mountain path. They moved as one, stepping through the door of the hut, pushing the vines before them, feeding the fire with their breath and motion. The ivy tightened around their hands, binding them closer, encasing their wrists in a twisting tangle of green and red-gold.

'Hold,' said Maelga. 'Hold, hold.'

Sybel gave herself up to the power of it. It flowed like a river through her, and sweeping away all names as yet uncalled. She laughed aloud, and the sound pierced the silence of the wintry night.

She could sense Maegla marshalling all of her strength for one final burst, and so Sybel opened herself up, allowing the other woman to draw on the last reserves of her power. Their flames built, and built, stretching towards the inky dark of the sky, and crashed downwards like a wave. The vines were pulled taut. The heat rivalled that of a forest fire.

And then, after a quick nod from Maelga, the flames receded. Sybel had the impression of the fire retreating at great speed up the mountain, until it vanished. The vines fell away as if they had never been. And yet the sense of their presence remained. Sybel looked at her wrists, as if expecting to see scars there, the lingering impression of the ivy bindings. She was gasping for breath as she fought to come back to herself.

Once she had gained some sense of steadiness and control, she turned to Maelga.

'What was all that about? The vines and the fire? It was a new and ... interesting experience for me, but it must have served some purpose, surely?'

Maelga took Sybel's arm, and let her back towards the cottage.

'I was trying to help one of the women who lives along the Sirle road, down the mountain,' she said, and her voice was whispery, as if her throat was scratchy with inhaled smoke. 'She came to me in desperation about her husband. She asked for a love potion, a restoration of lost feelings, but I could hear the first prickling of fear lying behind her spoken words. Her problem was not the loss of love — I sensed a darker threat. As you know, I do not make love potions — when wizards speak of love potions they are really speaking of coercion — and I told the woman so.'

'And you sent her away? Back to danger?' asked Sybel, stepping back inside. The warmth of Maelga's fire sank into her bones.

'Let me finish,' said Maelga, impatient affection in her voice. 'I explained about the love potions, made her a cup of warmed apple drink, and let her sit with me for a while. She did not ask for anything else of me, and left after the drink was drunk. But I felt a warning was needed.'

'And the fire — that was your warning?'

'The fire was a reminder: a reminder to this woman's husband that I was watching their household, and that this was what I could do. I'm sure you could sense that we held the fire back — it consumed no kindling, burnt nothing, touched nothing. But it was a reminder to that man that I can hold flames in my hand, and direct them to his destruction if I choose to do so. That the gentle hearth-witch who healed his son's fever and found his neighbour's lost flock of sheep can also fill a house with choking vines, and let loose a wave of fire down the mountain. Of course, I needed your help to create even the very restrained burning vines we sent his way tonight — but he doesn't need to know that!'

Maelga stepped through the door of the cottage, and closed it against the icy dark. She gestured for Sybel to take a seat by the hearth, and inspected the bubbling pot of soup. The smell of vegetables and herbs filled the room.

'I hope you're hungry,' she said.

Sybel was never much of a talker, but that little interlude with the flaming ivy and mistletoe had shocked her into even greater silence. She thought about the power she had wielded with Maelga. It was so unlike her own magic, and put to such a different purpose. Her own magic was cold, hard, and unyielding, like the bite of winter ice, or the clear, ringing note of a bell. Maelga's magic was warm, liquid, and burning — reaching outward instead of within. Sybel's mind was a sea of questions, but they sat, unasked, voiceless, on the tip of her tongue. She watched Maelga stir the soup in its pot on the fire, and thought about power.


End file.
